


knit up the ravelled sleeve of care

by coffeesuperhero



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik has the flu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	knit up the ravelled sleeve of care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaliara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaliara/gifts).



> **Notes:** This isn't for profit, just for the fun of [Secret Mutant](http://secret-mutant.livejournal.com)! The title is a reference to a line in Shakespeare's _MacBeth_ ; that isn't mine any more than Charles and Erik are.

Erik has the flu.

He ignores it for as long as he can, but after two long days of stoically ignoring the pain and the malaise and the feeling that his arms and legs have somehow merged with the mattress, Erik finds that he simply cannot summon the will to leave his bed.

The worst part of being this ill is not the pounding in his head or the aching of his body. For Erik, the terrible feeling of _weakness_ , of dependence upon those around him, is by far the worst aspect of disease. He tries to keep them out; he turns the metal locks on the bedroom doors with his mind and endures everyone's incessant knocking with the aid of a pillow pressed over his head. He knows, of course, that this is Charles' bedroom as well, but as far as he's concerned, when Charles returns from his most recent recruiting mission, Charles can very well take up residence in one of the mansion's many guestrooms until Erik finally feels well enough to do simple things like feed himself or walk across the room without feeling dizzy.

He doesn't want any of them to see him this way, least of all Charles, Charles to whom he has already given more of himself than he would ever have thought still existed. With Charles, he is more vulnerable, more naked and open and fragile than he has ever been with anyone, but this level of weakness is not something he can countenance letting anyone else see. Charles always speaks to the best in him. Today, he is not at his best.

The metal objects in the room call out to him, but instead of feeling comforted by their presence as he normally is, he finds that the extra pressure against his already aching head is an additional source of pain, and he knows Charles has returned from his mission when he feels the great hulking metal of the jet: the plane itself may be quiet, but the pressure of all that steel against his mind is loud and awful, and he burrows farther into the bed, pulling the duvet up over himself, trying to ignore the noise. There's a gentle whisper against his mind, and he swears aloud. He only has a few moments before Charles barges in here, locked doors or no locked doors.

"I don't want you to see me like this," he thinks, hoping that Charles will catch the pathetic pleading tone of his thoughts without him actually having to beg.

 _I'd tear down the wall to get to you_ , comes the immediate, fierce reply, and Erik sighs and releases his mental grip on the door's locking mechanism. Charles is the only person he's ever met who has a stubbornness and a tenacity to rival his own, and with this terrible headache he's not about to endure the cacophony of anyone tearing down the bedroom walls, especially not after he worked so hard to soundproof them.  
Charles is beside the bed moments later, peering down at him, worried. "What's wrong?"

"I'm _ill_ , Charles," Erik snaps, because really, this should be obvious, but Charles puts his fingers to his temple and waits until Erik sighs, "Oh, go ahead."

Most people, Erik knows, would not feel anything if Charles decided to plunder their brains. He does, and it's a gift Charles gives to him, an unspoken promise that he will never do this without cause or permission.

The thought might bring the smallest hint of a smile to his face if he didn't feel so completely awful.

When Charles is satisfied that there is nothing wrong with him but the unfortunate condition of his body due to illness, Erik feels Charles' presence fall away from his mind.

"Oh, you're ill," Charles says, clearly relieved, and then he actually has the temerity to _laugh_ at Erik's situation.

"There is nothing amusing about this, Charles," Erik grumbles.

"Erik, it's only the flu," Charles replies. "I'll bring you some soup, shall I? Mind you, someone else will have to make it, you wouldn't want anything I'd made."

"I don't want anything anyone has made, I want to be left alone," Erik says. He would grind his teeth in frustration, but his head hurts too much to be bothered with it. He makes a weak, half-hearted rude gesture at Charles with one hand, which Charles ignores, stepping closer and placing his hand against Erik's forehead.

"You do feel a bit warm," Charles observes, his fingers lingering on Erik's face. "I'll bring you some water; get some rest."

"Do my wishes literally mean nothing to you?" Erik complains, resolutely not longing for the cool touch of Charles' hand against his forehead. "What did I just say?"

"We'll have you back on your feet in a few days," Charles promises, ignoring Erik's complaints. "Sleep, my friend."

\+ + + +

Erik may have let Charles into the bedroom, but Charles quickly discovers that he makes an even more terrible patient than he had previously anticipated.

The first time he brings Erik a pitcher of water, murmuring a soft, "Feeling any better?" as he places it gently on the bedside table, Charles quickly realizes the mistake he's made: the silver pitcher folds in on itself, water sloshing everywhere, dripping onto the smooth hardwood and soaking Charles' cardigan. It's dreadfully cold, and he nearly yelps when the icy clamminess of his cardigan presses against his stomach.

"Dammit, Erik," he swears, but the curse is really more for his own thoughtlessness than for Erik's outburst. The metal pitcher was a bad idea, he sees that now.

Erik's voice rumbles out from under a pile of pillows and blankets. "Verdammt, Charles, _go away_."

"You have the flu, Erik," Charles replies, careful to keep his voice down. "You need to drink plenty of fluids."

Erik makes no reply, but the crumpled pitcher flies off the tray and across the room, smacking with a dull thud against the wall, and Charles sighs.

"I'll be back later," he says quietly, tucking the tray under his arm. "This isn't over."  
\+ + + +

Everything hurts. Erik hasn't wished to be human in a long time, not since he was a boy, a stupid, innocent child who knew no better, but the virus attacking his body has made him so incredibly sensitive that he swears he can feel the microscopic metallic elements in his own bloodstream.

Each time his heart beats, he feels it.

Charles will no doubt think this is an intriguing possibility for future training, once he's back on his feet, and Erik has to admit that he wants to continue to explore what he can do with the undiscovered country that lies somewhere between rage and serenity.

For now, he can't even summon rage, just a dull anger to match the dull thumping in his head. Perhaps later he will feel some measure of guilt for ruining Charles' pitcher. With some effort, he rolls back over and passes back into the blessed soothing relief of unconsciousness.

He dreams of Charles.

\+ + + +

Raven is sitting in the chair by his bed when he wakes, silently reading some kind of magazine.

He mentally searches the room for something to toss in her general direction, but it seems that someone has been very busy while he's been asleep: there is nothing metal left in the room. Even the spoon in the glass bowl of broth next to his bed is wooden.

Raven follows his eyes. "Moira went out and bought wooden spoons, just for you," she says, closing her magazine.

"For Charles, you mean," he snipes. He stares at the ceiling, wondering how much trouble he would be in later if he pulled the plumbing out of the walls and made a fortress out of the pipes. He could do it with the mattress springs, but he really doesn't want to move right now. He doesn't want to move anything metal, either, it still hurts, and he's irritated that Charles probably knew that, and more irritated that he shared it with Moira.

"I know you're sick, but you should try to be nicer to Charles," she says, and he just grunts in response. Raven rolls her wide yellow eyes at him and crosses one blue leg over the other. "He's actually pretty good with sick people. When I was little, I used to get these terrible earaches, and he'd make me a hot water bottle and sit up with me all night, telling me stories or reading my favorite books. Once when I had a really high fever and I was really scared, he even sang me a song."

"How touching," Erik growls. Truthfully, the thought of Charles as a caretaker, singing off-key melodies to sick mutant children, makes his heart squeeze in his chest, but he's barely even admitting that to himself, much less to Raven. "I don't need to be _serenaded_."

"And you don't need anyone to take care of you. Trust me: we get it, " Raven says, getting to her feet. "But maybe Charles needs to take care of you. Think about that the next time he comes up here."

\+ + + +

Charles tiptoes back into the room some time after Raven leaves; it's difficult for Erik to tell time when all he does is sleep and try to sip on the broth that someone keeps leaving on the bedside table. Erik opens one weary eye and watches Charles silently leveraging himself into the chair Raven has vacated. He's holding an old paperback copy of Camus' _The Plague_ , in the original French, no less. Erik would chuckle if he could summon the energy; the choice of reading material is so thoroughly pointed and pompous and so very _Charles_ , Charles, whom he loves in spite of Charles and in spite of himself.

"I'm not going away, Erik," Charles says resolutely, breaking into his thoughts.

"I know," Erik says, with a long-suffering sigh, but his heart isn't really in it. If he is going to be forced to need Charles in this, his time of _la pest_ , as it were, then at least the need is reciprocated.

Charles shifts in his seat and leans forward a bit. "Resigned to your fate, are you?"

"Yes. But as I think you know, I always expected a far worse fate than sharing a life with someone who is so determined to care for me," Erik says. He waves his hand feebly in Charles' direction. "We've gone domestic, Charles."

Charles smiles at him, and Erik would never admit it, but this is the best he's felt in days. He closes his book and tucks it away under the chair. "Shall I feed you some broth, then? Or is that overly domestic?"

"I think I can manage," Erik says, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I'm bored, hand me that book. And fetch me some water and a cup of hot tea."

Charles laughs as he leans over and picks up the book, which he dutifully surrenders. "I'm going to regret signing up for this particular mission, aren't I?"

"I certainly hope so," Erik says, flashing a toothy smile at Charles, who tosses off a sloppy salute and leaves the room.

He feels better already.


End file.
